IRELAND, like many of the States of Europe, possesses a population made up of two or more races, speaking distinct languages, and with habits and modes of life widely differing, although for centuries claiming home within the same boundaries, and under the same government. The contrast is somewhat softened by intermediate grades; still the difference is very marked. The south and west of Ireland are inhabited by a class of people almost entirely Catholics; bigoted, ignorant, superstitious, and extremely poor, except in the larger towns and cities. Scattered in little rented sections over the moors, heaths, and even among the bogs which form an important feature of the island, they manage to subsist on potatoes, and a variety of fish taken by solitary fishermen, who venture out upon the sea in frail, wicker corachs – a kind of boat coated with green hide. Their language, especially along the western coast, is so unintelligible as often to require an interpreter, when in communication with those of the north.

The north and east of Ireland are occupied by a people of Scotch and English descent, mixed with the native Irish. The manners, customs and language of the former, characterise them, and the Protestant religion is almost exclusively professed by them. As a class, they are an intelligent, industrious and hardy people, and feel themselves as much superior to what are called the "native Irish," as the Americans are to the Indian race. The land is under superior cultivation, and is not so completely forsaken by landholders and the nobility, as is the case in the more barren, southern regions; thus a thriving and enterprising impulse is given that greatly contributes to the wealth and prosperity of the population.

With all its disadvantages, Ireland deserves the encomiums so lavishly bestowed on its beauty by those who proudly claim it as their birthplace. The luxuriant greenness of its vegetation, the graceful foliage of the willows larches, the dark firs among the mountains, the bold, rocky shores of the north, the countless lakes with their wooded islands, ruins of ancient castles, picturesque Monasteries and convents, the round towers whose origin and use still remain a mystery, and the host of holy wells and enchanted resorts, give romance to its history, as well as strange beauty to its scenery.

Ireland been unjustly dealt with by English historians, English government, and American estimates of her resources, suggested by the poor emigrants from her barren heaths. Sir John Davies wrote thus of Ireland in 1612 : 'I have observed the good temperature of the ayre, the fruitfulness of the soyle, the pleasant and commodious seats for habitation, the safe and large ports and havens lying open for trafficke into all the western parts of the world; the long inlets of many navigable rivers, and so many great lakes and fresh ponds within the land, as the like are not to be seen in any part of Europe; the rich fishings; the wild fowle of all kinds; and lastly the bodies and minds of the people endued with extraordinary abilities of nature.'

The heaths and bogs, of which he does not speak, contain hard, coal-like fuel, extending to an unknown depth beneath the peat – enough to supply all England for a century to come, and is a mine of wealth which no practical, speculating Yankee would have left unopened through centuries, had he possessed the soil.

In the county of Armagh, in the north of Ireland, lived, a hundred years ago, a wealthy land-holder, who prided much in the broad, fruitful acres of his inheritance. A large share of it was rented to a respectable tenantry, but the most picturesque portion he had retained for his own use; a rich rolling extent of ground, mapped out by a ridge of low, stone walls, and parted into fields by darkgreen lines of neatly-trimmed, hawthorn hedges.

The house was of stone, plastered and whitewashed, according to the fashion of those days, with a portico extending across the whole front supported by small, white columns. It stood upon a smooth, green slope, which descended gently to the highway, and was pleasantly sheltered and shaded by groups of larch and oak. A hugh, old willow reared its waving top close the dwelling, sweeping the steep roof with its long, trailing boughs, and spreading out its enormous branches in roomy proportions that soon tempted the children to occupy it as a strong-hold, against the perpetual war which threatened the extermination of their pigmy, doll population and the attendant paraphernalia.

A terraced garden extended behind the house, and beyond rose a group of low, undulating hills. A spring gurgled from one of the slopes, and tumbled down the declivity in miniature water-falls, till, circling round the base of one of the hills, it glided into a glen and supplied a sacred well, or pool, almost hidden from the passer-by, among a thick growth of bushes and low trees that dipped their branches into the clear, still water. Though hidden at the hill-side, it was well known to the Catholics for miles around as the scene of a miracle, performed by a favorite saint to whom they might appeal when in distress. Strips of cloth, of every hue, were fastened to the bending boughs and bushes, to remind the saint of their petitions. A prayer of penance, the devout sign of the cross, a low murmuring of what burdened the heart, and they went away as noiseless as they came, leaving the branches streaming with emblems of their blind superstition.

Mr. Synton gave them free access to his grounds, believing that every man had a right to his own mode of worship, but sought to convince those erring people of their mistaken faith in the charmed waters. Though he frequently assailed them with earnest arguments, he was respected by them for his never-failing justice, and won their strong attachment by the warm, ready greeting of his manner.

He was a tall, robust, bold-featured man, with a pleasant, humorous countenance, in conversation; yet his face, in repose, wore the impress of a stern determination of character. Being of a lively, social temperament, his patience was often taxed by the demure, quiet ways of his little, quaker wife. In her youth, in spite of the close bonnet overshadowing her mild eyes, and handkerchief folded firmly over her heart, he had found his way to both, won, and borne her away from the "Friends." Although she had permitted herself to be dissevered from the society, she retained the religious impression of her maidenhood, and gently maintained her own way of thinking, or worshiping, despite the occasional raillery of her husband. "Come out upon the lawn with us, and have a gay frolic! Why are you so silent, Elizabeth?" asked he when she sat quiet and thougtful.

"Thee knows very well, William. I am communing with the spirit. I will go with thee by-and-by." But Mr. Synton had no idea of leaving her to her involuntary solitude. With perfect ease he lifted her in his arms and carried her off triumphantly, amid the merry shouts of the children. She was of unusually small stature, and, though of middle age, retained her youthful looks to a surprising degree. Possibly the entire absence of wrinkles in her calm, sweet face, was owing to the serenity of her temper, and the cultivation of a kind spirit that shone in her countenance even to old age; for, though she lived a hundred years, the same expression was there, the same smooth brow and clear eye, the same bright color upon her cheek. She met death in a gentle sleep, and when shrouded for the grave, none would have dreamed when looking upon the still youthful features, with scarcely the trace of sorrow or age, that the breath of a century had passed over them. But to return.

Notwithstanding her mildness, the strictest obedience was enforced upon their three sons and only daughter, Kathleen. In Ireland, the word of the parent is absolute law, and the slightest departure from it is punished with the utmost severity. Such influence, together with the sternness of their father, rarely failed to secure ready obedience to their girlish mother.

Kathleen, the pet of the household, won an especial place in her father's affections, which was chargeable to her frolicsome nature, in entire contrast with her three staid brothers. Joining in her sports, he could give vent to his playful moods, and never tire of her mischievous tricks. She was sure to find an asylum with him, if an extra expenditure of her love of mirth had incurred the displeasure of her brothers. In his absence, the topmost branches of the willow were not too high for her to climb for concealment, and in spite of the cries of "Kathleen! Kathleen!" that might resound far and near, she would persist in retaining her hiding place till her father's return secured her defence. Nothing was out of the reach of her mischief loving fingers, as even the poor Catholics could testify, had they known what saint caused their tokens of appeal to disappear from the bushes down by the holy well.

But Miss Kate was constrained to her best behavior, when the Saturday evening sunset announced the beginning of the Sabbath. In the observance of the sacred hours, Mr. Synton was minutely particular; he required the same regard from every member of the household. When the sun had set, all labor was discontinued, and the family gathered in the neatly arranged parlor. The curtains were dropped before the windows, that none should be tempted to look out, or be diverted from the diligent study of the catechism, in preparation for the coming of the pastor. On stated occasions' he visited each family within his jurisdiction, assembled every member of it, and listened to the recital of the catechism from the grey-headed father and ancient matron, down to the lisping child. The children could not always understand the expositions, but it was all the same if they had their lesson by rote, for when the whole was committed – unless at an earlier age than fifteen – they were admitted to the communion.

For once in all the week, Kate was glad when bed-time came, nor was she ever ready to give a cordial greeting to the Sabbath morning that came like a spell, hushing and softening every sound. No laughter, or light words, no labor of any kind, no rambling under the trees, or along the shaded avenues of the garden. They partook of the simple, cold, morning meal, prepared in every particular the day previous, and then gathered in the quiet parlor again for religious exercises. The mother sat there with her close, neat, little cap, white as snow, around her placid face. Her severely plain garb was in direct contrast with all the rest. Mr. Synton occupied the great square arm-chair, looking stately, portly and dignified; the more so for his hair being stiffly powdered, thrown back and fastened in a long cue behind. A long-bodied, blue coat, with massive bright buttons, short clothes, elaborate knee and shoe-buckles most fastidiously fastened, completed his dress, which was faithfully copied in miniature in the three urchins who were demurely seated opposite. Kathleen's attire was not less' showy than the others. She was perilously mounted beside her brothers, in a chair of broad, high-backed dimensions, the seat of which was too elevated to permit even the tip of her pointed shoe to touch the floor, in spite of the utmost stretch. Teeming with sly mischief, she was sure to break the imposed quiet with a burst of irrepressible laughter, or with her comical attempts at release and a side whisper, she would get her staid brothers into fits of merriment that were sure to gain for them a severe reprimand. What was to become of the perverse Kathleen, no one could tell.

At a punctual hour, Mr. Synton led the way along the road-side, or, mounted on his riding horse, with a pillion behind him for his quaint, little wife, went with sober countenance to the old church of the Seceders, which stood at the turning of the highway, a mile distant.

Though the public services were not calculated to edify the children, being as much beyond their comprehension as the unexplained catechism, still, as with that, strict attention was enforced, and it was good fortune to them, if they kept awake during half the sermon; otherwise they would be made sensible of the requirements by an occasional shake. The ever-wakeful Kathleen had no trouble of that kind, however, for she found abundant occupation in slily pinning the long cues of her nearest neighbors fast to the pew, or making wry faces in the enormous, mirror-like buttons that decorated her father's coat. She would find something to do; and if the preacher spoke in enigmas beyond the power of her brain to puzzle out, she persisted in employing her eyes and fingers in no very devotional way, in spite of the punishment that would inevitably follow.

When the family were gathered again beneath the home-roof, the reading of the Scriptures and religious conversation were resumed, till the sun went down. This event was narrowly watched by the uneasy children, to whom the day had been made so void of interest that it was with ill-concealed joy they bade good night to the last sun-beam – the signal of the cessation of the Sabbath. The curtains were looped back, the books laid by, the servants resumed their labor, the calm, gentle mother noiselessly superintended her household, while the father strolled through the fields with his children, or assisted them at a game on the lawn, till night closed in. The business of the new week had fairly commenced.

Thus the week-days and Sabbaths of Kathleen's childhood passed away with little to mark it, except the development of an impulsive, willful, light-spirited nature, which required all her father's sternness to curb. As was customary, at fifteen she became a communicant of the church of the Seceders – a mere outward form without an inner response, that had no effect whatever upon her character. She was the same pleasure-seeking, thoughtless, laughter loving girl as before. Whether journeying or hunting, at the fairs or watering-places, she was always at her father's side. No journey was too long, no ride too fatiguing, no undertaking too dangerous. Sometimes perched upon a pillion behind him, and sometimes firmly and gracefully seated upon a spirited pony that had been a birth-day gift, she would gallop away for miles, ford the streams, or leap hedge after hedge, bound over the low, stone walls, sweep the fields, and return, glowing with the exercise and excitement, to her father's side for his approval. He gloried in her free, bold horsemanship, and gratified his pride by displaying her graceful accomplishment in frequent trips to the nearest gay resorts of the fashionable world. Equipped in a rich, cloth habit, of more sensible dimensions than the modern, flowing skirt that risks the life of the wearer, and crowned with a picturesque hat ornamented with a gold band and waving, black plumes, she was ready for a day's excursion.

At eighteen, Kate was the acknowledged belle of the neighborhood. No excursion or festive gathering was thought complete in enjoyment without her, since she possessed the rare tact of inspiring those about her with the same liveliness that animated herself. In gala dress, she was indisputably beautiful. Her hair powdered, thrown from her face, and confined at the back of her finely-rounded head, in a silken coiffure, fastened with friezing pins, exposed to advantage the striking but perfectly feminine features. A smooth, open forehead, fine arched brows, beneath which beamed eyes of jetty black that flashed or softened with her emotions, an acquiline nose and a mouth that betrayed more pride than sweetness, made up a face whose greatest charm lay in the ever-varying and animated expression. Her tall, full figure was well-displayed in the neat-fitting satin bodice, if not in the wide hooped skirt she wore. High-heeled shoes, which she managed with admirable dexterity, completed her costume.

Thus attired, one evening she sought her mother's approval. But a mild reproof was all she could elicit from the mother, who rarely entered into the gayeties in which her father so readily accompanied her.

"Thee knows, Kathleen, I love not to see thee so gay. Thy father will spoil thee," was the quiet remark, after a survey, from which she returned to her employment. Kathleen went away with the feeling of vexation that arises in one's heart, when a favourite course does not meet the approbation of one whose judgment is revered. But her momentary regrets were forgotten in the evening festivities, at a near country seat, where stately dames in stiff brocades, and powdered and ruffled gentry walked the graceful minuet, while fair, young girls and gallant sons of Erin mingled in the more animating, national dances, and whirled in pirouettes or the mazy waltz.

Among the many who sought the lively Katheen, was one who, after a long absence, had returned to his home and the companions of his younger years. His mother, a wealthy widow, occupied the estate adjoining Mr. Synton's, and thus Kathleen and Henry Arvine had been almost constant companions in childhood. There was a congeniality in his lively temperament that made her prefer his society to either of her brothers, and readily receive the thousand little services which his kindly nature prompted him to bestow. It was he who helped her out of a maze in study, he who gathered wild flowers for her; who led the frisky pony in his first riding lessons till the motion was familiar, and afterwards, with her father, galloped by her side along the smooth, paved roads or the shores of some of the many lakes that beautify Ireland's scenery. He had shared the pet griefs and mischievous frolics of her childhood; he had laughed, chatted and sung with her in her free girlhood; but such a life could not continue long. At last, with unembarrassed tears and expressions of affection they parted; he to develop the powers of manhood in foreign scenes; she to expand in the full glory of her personal womanhood, under protecting, paternal care.

Each, during that long absence, almost unconsciously to themselves, had preserved the ineffaceable image of the other, and made it the standard by which to judge all beside. Arvine was attracted by an irresistible sympathy towards those who laughed, spoke, or moved like Kathleen, till he could no longer conceal it from himself that Kathleen embodied his cherished ideal. They met again in the midst of the gay throng. Noble and manly in his bearing, intelligent, vivacious, and the heir of great wealth, his coming produced an undeniable sensation among ambitious, match-making mothers and aspiring daughters. But his eyes and heart were directed to Kathleen, whose beauty had so wondrously expanded during their long parting. His face looked and smiled the satisfaction he secretly felt at noting the blush that deepened upon the cheek of his long-chosen favorite, when he received her hand in his with a glad greeting. For once Kate was abashed, and lost her usual self-possession. Vexation at herself, for her want of ease in the presence of the very one whose opinion she prized the most, checked her flow of sprits; the few constrained inquiries that passed between them served to embarrass her all the more. When he turned away to others, she worried herself with thinking what a dunce he must take her to be, and how indifferently she had received him after an absence of years. It had nearly spoiled her evening's pleasure.

At the close of a reel, he again approached her, and led her away from the group of flippants who paid their court. For the sake of recalling old remembrances, he left the crowded rooms, and they sat together in a happily arranged conservatory. Before they returned to the dance he had, with Irish impetuosity and warmth, unfolded all his dreams, his love, and his hopes, and drawn from her the confused acknowledgment of what she had scarcely confessed to herself, that she loved none other than Arvine.

It seemed only a happy dream in the midst of that bewildering music and mirth, but a deeper, calmer, more enduring joy gladdened them, when, in an after and quiet home-scene, came the trysting, the father's blessing, and the mother's approving smile. A gift-ring of engagement encircled the finger of the affianced bride, and the promise was sealed.

Days and weeks of the purest happiness followed. How bright the sun-shine seemed, and how glorious all creation! The world looked an Eden in the eyes of the lovers, and friends were ten-fold dearer; for the expanded affections seemed wide enough to enfold every loved one on earth. How our souls would be riveted to earth if such pure and exquisite joy could last a life-time, yet how wisely it is ordered otherwise, since the soul would forget to aspire to a holier, nobler existence!

One evening at sunset, Kathleen and Arvine returned from a long excursion, in an unusually lively mood, alighted from their horses, said a smiling good night and parted, little dreaming of the ills that were awaiting them. Henry remounted and rode away, while Kate walked slowly towards the house, singing snatches of a ballad and striking at the bushes with her riding whip as she passed along.

"Kathleen! Kathleen!“ came a sharp, quick voice, that made her bound into the hall and look inquiringly into the room whence the voice proceeded. Her father was there, sitting in his accustomed chair near the window, but at her entrance he arose and walked rapidly back and forth as was his habit when excited. His flushed face wore an ominous scowl, and his hands were obstinately clasped behind him. He stopped short as she came nearer, with an expression of surprise and inquiry, and, in an angry, excited tone, exclaimed,

"You shall never see the day that will make you the wife of Henry Arvine, nor shall he again cross my threshold. His haughty mother opposes his marriage since your dowry will not be equal to his inheritance. She has her eye upon an heiress, forsooth, as if you, my daughter, were not good enough for the greatest lord in the realm. Send that ring back to-night, nor dare to see that man's face again. If you disobey, you are no longer a child of mine!" concluded he, bringing his hand down heavily upon a slenderly supported table, as if to seal his resolve.

The unexpected announcement stunned Kathleen too much for a reply. She stood still, looking at her father in amazement; her face flushed, her lips quivering with a fullness of feeling that could not readily find utterance. Mr. Synton read the indignant remonstrance in her face, but as she attempted to speak, he silenced her with,

"Enough! You know my will. All you have to do, is to obey," said he, sternly, and left her alone.

"I will not obey such a command," said she, after standing a moment. She brushed away the tears that were gathering in her eyes, and walked firmly from the room to seek her mother. "Mother," exclaimed she, on finding her in a favorite apartment that opened upon the front piazza.

"Mother, do you know that --- "

Her angry determination melted before the sympathising look of her much loved parent, and, unable to utter another word, she burst into tears.

"I know it all, my, child," said she, drawing her tenderly towards her. "Do as thy father bade thee, Kathleen. He will certainly relent in time, for he loves thee too well to crush thy young spirit. Obey him, but remember, however it terminates, that the hand of God is in it for thy good."

They wept together – Kathleen and her good, gentle mother, who had yet to learn the depth of her husband's stern, unyielding pride.

A few weeks passed, during which Kathleen gradually resumed her cheerfulness. Her father seemed to have forgotten the severity with which he had treated her, for the subject had not once been recalled. He read in the returning sunshine of Kathleen's face, the obliteration of the love that had filled her heart, in ready obedience to his command, as if a stroke could dash out the ineffaceable impressions of first love. Kathleen had grown hopeful and cheerful, because she believed her father's silence indicated forgetfulness of his angry restrictions and their cause. Confident of his indulgence, she obeyed his commands only in part.

Down among the shady garden walks, upon the lower terrace and in the glen, often strolled, by star-light, two loving beings, whose existence seemed merged into one. A shade of sadness had fallen upon the interchange of soul once so joyous; they both keenly felt a degrading sense of the deception by which their stolen interviews were accomplished. It was galling to natures frank and free as theirs. Sometimes a manly voice of entreaty came up from the glen, urging flight, but the whispered reply was, ever,

"No: I cannot bear my father's curse. Let us be patient yet a little longer. He will forget it all, and we shall be free and happy again."

Thus they met, till one evening, careless of their usual caution, their voices floated merrily on the air, and reached Mr. Synton's quick ear. He was pacing back and forth in the hall, the doors at both its extremities being thrown back to admit the cool, evening air.

"Arrah! who's there with Kathleen?" said he aloud to himself; he approached the door, and leaning forward in a listening attitude, again heard the voices.

"Kathleen! Kathleen!" shouted he, in the sharp, short tone that always evinced his displeasure.

In an instant she bounded up the walks and stood by him.

"Who is in the garden?" was his abrupt question.

"Henry Arvine!" replied Kathleen, standing boldly erect, and disdaining to evade the question.

A moment of silence ensued, during which Arvine, willing to shield one who had ventured her father's anger for his sake, came up to the silent group. In that moment the unrelenting father renewed his resolution to make the sting which his own pride had received, recoil upon Arvine's mother. He haughtily threw back his head and coldly returned Arvine's mild salutation, in which was neither servility nor defiance.

"Mr. Synton," said he, calmly, "I trust you will pardon Kathleen's disobedience, since I tempted her. As for myself, I rely upon your sense of justice, which will sooner or later convince you of the unjust command you have laid upon us."

"Go to your room, Kathleen. We will see if I am to be obeyed or not. And you, young man, hear my oath that, as long as God gives me breath, Kathleen shall not be your wife! Now relieve me of your presence, sir, if you please," said he, turning disdainfully upon his heel and entering the house.

Arvine burned with indignation and resentment, but checked the rising retort for Kathleen's sake; he slowly walked away to the lower terrace, crossed the little stream that watered it, and, mounting his horse that was secured in the meadow nearby, rapidly rode off. He bounded through the fields, leaped the hedges and stone walls, and struck into the highway. Away he galloped over hill and heath, uncovering his brow to the cool breeze, in the endeavor to calm his excitement. But he could not drive from his thoughts the words he had just heard. The more he revolved them, the more certainly he was assured of his separation from Kathleen, and the deeper became his conviction of the iron will of his tormentor. Still he went faster and farther, as if to outride his agonizing thoughts. He dashed along the highway, over hill and dale, past clustered hamlets and quiet dwellings, like a madman, without noting where he was borne. At last, reckless and exhausted, he gave loose reins to the panting animal, which quietly took the direction of home. Brought unconsciously to his own door, he leaped from the saddle and hastened to his apartment.

There he paced the floor till morning dawned, then threw himself upon his couch, only to toss restlessly about, and seek in vain for relief from the intolerable pain that fired his heart and brain. He had for days been threatened with illness, which was now suddenly and fearfully developed by the intense excitement and anguish of the thought of relinquishing Kathleen, whom he loved with all the fervor and oneness of his ardent nature. He struggled to crush down his grief, and hide it in his inmost heart, but it made the blood pass in quick, heavy throbs through his fevered veins.

Those who came near him, imagined those groans were extorted by physical pain; he impatiently motioned away their vain offers of relief. His mother, surprised and alarmed, made endless inquiries of the servants one moment thinking he had been poisoned, and the next believing the horse had thrown him, since it had been found in the morning straying upon the ground, saddled and bridled.

"Go for a physician instantly," said she, in an excited tone, to a faithful servant. "Ride fast – do not lose a moment!"

Many hours elapsed before the desired assistance was obtained, for miles were to be traversed in seeking a skillful practitioner. Long before he appeared, Arvine was in a raving delirium, and the cause was no longer a mystery to the anxious mother. He betrayed it all in the unconscious moanings that were burdened with entreaties for Kathleen to fly with him, and in the wild gestures and threatening words addressed to her father's fancied presence. Then in an agony of distress, he would cry out for Kathleen not to leave him, as he imagined her torn from him. He turned, tossed and raved with all the restlessness of burning delirium, while every word went to the heart of the proud, but remorseful mother.

At length the Doctor arrived, and was ushered into the sick-chamber. He approached the bedside, rubbing his soft, fat hands with an air of satisfaction and pomposity, scarcely suited to the occasion. He grasped the feverish hand of his patient, watched him steadily, and listened to the unhappy bursts of entreaty and grief he uttered, then seated himself near by, and stroked his chin while he kept his twinkling eyes fixed upon Arvine. A low sound of assent to his own wise thoughts, and an occasional nod of his well-powdered head, evinced his interest.

"Yes, yes," said he, finally, "I see, I see how it is. Love affair troublesome things those – hard to deal with – rather set a broken leg than a broken heart – obstinate disease that!"

He started up, and began rubbing his soft, fat hands again.

"Bleed him – bleed him!" said he in a decided tone, turning and giving orders to the a nearest servant. In an instant, half a dozen articles, of all sorts and sizes, were brought by as many hands; for a sympathizing group had gathered near the door, unnoticed by their bewildered mistress, and each, with willing heartiness, ran to do something for their young master, but were sure to bring the very thing that was least wanted. In past years, the servants in wealthy families were the native Catholic Irish from the west or south, who presented themselves in market for hire, once each month. Others could not be obtained without difficulty; thus their rude manners, blundering good nature, and almost unintelligible brogue, had to be endured till they were better taught,

"Go down, every one of you, instantly," commanded their haughty mistress, provoked at the confused intrusion. "Patrick, you must remain," said she to a trim, active fellow who stood foremost.

The darkened chamber was soon cleared. The next half hour was occupied in busy attentions and efforts to relieve the suffering patient. Reduced by the loss of blood, he became quiet and gradually fell into a listless slumber. The curtains were drawn softly about him; faint whispers and noiseless steps only now and then risked the quiet of the hours that were fast ticking away into midnight.

"Mother!" said a weak but rational voice from within the curtains. In a moment, both she and the physician, who had remained, stood by him. He had awakened with the full memory of what had occurred, and comprehended his present position. Weak and faint, the thought of an eternal separation suggested itself; with it, came rushing back his intense devotional love for Kathleen. "Mother, send for Kathleen. Tell her I must see her."

The request was obeyed, and a messenger hastily dispatched. The worthy doctor noted with anxiety the rising pulse, and sought to combat the effects of Arvine's excited mind. Some time had elapsed when the messenger returned. He bounded up the staircase with long leaps, and suddenly thrusting his head into the doorway said, in that peculiar intonation of voice with which an Irishman communicates bad news,

"The masther says niver a bit will he be afther letting Miss Kathleen come, and he is --"

"Hush up!" vociferated the doctor, cutting short the sentence in his alarm for his patient, and shutting the door forcibly.

"It is all for that uncouth fellow," said the mother encouragingly to Arvine. "I will send Patrick, and Kathleen will be here presently."

"Has she come?" was Arvine's impatient inquiry, long into the morning hours; in spite of watchful efforts, he relapsed into the raging delirium of the previous day.

Again the lancet dipped into his veins, and again came the lethargy of weakness.

Messenger after messenger was dispatched with urgent entreaties for Kathleen to come. The doctor stamped and raged, and told them to tell the iron-hearted father that Arvine's blood would be upon his head, if he did not relent. It was all useless. Another day passed, freighted with the most intense anxiety. Towards evening a last entreaty was sent, telling them Arvine could not live, and besought to see Kathleen once more. Kathleen heard the message, and, almost frantic with grief, clung to the father, who idolized her, yet strangely inflicted the keenest torture, rather than yield his proud will.

"I have said no. No it shall be. His own mother decreed it," was his firm reply, as he drew himself up to his most stately height, and dismissed the servant.

Kathleen hastened to the garden, gathered a few choice flowers that spoke the language of her love and grief, and, unperceived, gave it to the messenger, saying, while her face was bathed in tears,

"Tell him I sent them. He can read what I would say."

She stood watching him till he was out of sight, thinking of a thousand things she wished she had said, that were swelling up in her full heart. She longed for wings, and as she returned to her own silent room, weeping and sobbing painfully, she asked herself,

"Shall I not disobey my father, and go?"

Then came the remembrance of the penalty; she knew her father too well to believe he would ever receive her again if she disobeyed his command. Her mother, her brothers, her home – could she give them up, and never claim them by those loved names again? Could she brave her father's curse? But the memory of Arvine dying and calling upon her, rose above, and conquered, every fear. She became calm and almost breathless as she revolved a dozen plans to go unseen. At length, summoning a servant whom she knew could be trusted, she bade him be ready at midnight with a horse and pillion to take her to Arvine's home.

Anxious and trembling, she sat at the low casement, looking out upon the fields and trees that were silvered with moonlight. Quiet was within and without; she could only hear the heavy beating of her heart. Yet she waited till the midnight stroke of the tall clock had ceased, before she ventured to move – then noiselessly and easily dropped from the low window to the ground. Hastening along the walk to the rear of the house, she found the servant waiting in the shadow of a group of trees. Without a word, she approached and laid her hand upon the saddle, ready for a light spring, when her eldest brother bounded from the house towards her. An altercation ensued, which threatened to arouse the household. Kathleen was terrified into obedience, lest her father should discover her intention. The hope gone, she listlessly suffered herself to be led back to her room, and sat down in that sort of torpor which is the result of hopeless grief. Vacantly she looked out upon the moonlight, while unbroken stillness returned. Her heart was looking through her eyes, far into the chamber of death, where an agonized mother watched by the bedside of her dying son.

The burning fever had left him pale and helpless, though conscious. The palor of death was upon his noble features, and its icy chill was fast creeping closer to his heart. Upon his breast lay a few flowers -- Kathleen's last gift – but he could see them still, and he kept his eyes upon them as though her loved face was shadowed forth among the drooping leaves.

"Kathleen! Kathleen!" he still faintly called in a fast failing voice. "Has she come?" he whispered at each opening of the door.

Gently and slowly death severed the cords that bind the spirit to the mortal. Soon the lips were silent, the eye fixed and vacant, and those who wept and watched knew that the soul – the light – the life, was gone.

Kathleen still sat gazing from the open casement when the click and ring of hoofs, upon the paved road, aroused her. The sound came nearer and louder, till it abruptly ceased. A moment of stillness succeeded; then a knock, heavy and hard, upon the hall door, went echoing through the house, awaking every sleeper, and sending a sickening chill through Kathleen's heart. The door was opened; the words came distinct and loud,

"Henry Arvine is dead!"

"She may go now!" spoke Mr. Synton, but she heard no more, and fell senseless to the floor. Thus her father found her. He had not weighed her affections or her strength in the balance with his pride.

Those only who know what real grief is, and who have no God to sustain them, can understand Kathleen's agony when awakened again to consciousness. It is true she communed with the church, on the strength of a thorough knowledge of the catechism, but, like a thousand others, bore the name of Christian, without possessing the spirit of piety. She had none of the confiding faith that can say and feel, "God doeth all things well;" nothing of heart religion to sustain her in that overwhelming sorrow. All was dreary and dark to her.

She entreated to see Arvine's face once more before they buried him from her sight. Ready to gratify her wishes now, her father conveyed her to the house of mourning, and to the chamber of death. Arvine rested upon a stately bed, shaded by drapery' that swept in snow-white folds from the lofty top to the floor. Bands and knots of white ribbon looped back the flowing curtains. There reposed all that remained of the loved Arvine. Cold, calm and white, he no longer reached forth his arms to welcome his beloved Kathleen – no endearing words – no look of unspeakable affection such as had always greeted her. She did not heed the last busy preparations, nor notice the white knots of mourning that were arranged for her; she saw nothing but the motionless form before her, while her heart seemed breaking for a look or word. With wild, tearless sobs she laid her head beside the dead, and cried,

"Oh, speak to me once more, Arvine! I cannot live without you – take me with you! Don't leave me alone, but speak to me – look at me Arvine – I have come!"

Her bewildered and touching entreaties wrung burning tears of sympathy from every listener. They tore her away, fearful for the effects of her sorrow, and bore her to a distant apartment, that she should not see him taken away. The active preparations for the funeral went on. Arvine was removed to his coffin, but, as they laid him there, a dark stream of blood gushed from his nostrils, and showered in glaring spots upon the white vest and broad ruffles of Mr. Synton, who stood close by. Exclamations of horror came from every lip; all the superstitious suggestions that are so abundant among the people of the green isle, rose vividly to each mind. Whispers floated about of the judgment that had come upon him for his obstinate pride, yet few censured or condemned him, since the unbounded authority of the parent, in every particular, was universally acknowledged. Scenes like the one which called them together now, were not n uncommon.

The pageant of the funeral, with its waving hearse-plumes, and long, white hat-bands and linen scarfs, passed by, leaving behind the usual monotonous routine so intolerable to the bereaved, when every accustomed occupation, every daily resort and familiar place, speaks continually of one who is never to come again. Kathleen returned to her quiet home, remembering it all as a dreadful dream, from which arose the distinct, ever-present image of Arvine's cold, marble-like face, as motionless as if it had been chiseled in stone. She walked alone in the old paths where they had strayed together, and sat weeping in the haunts they had frequented since childhood. The sunshine was a mockery to her mourning spirit; the songs of the birds brought no respondent melody from lips that ever before had teemed with musical mirth. The evening notes of the nightingale, the sound of the rivulet, the swelling chorus of the leaves, all whispered of Arvine – lost – gone forever! Wandering through the garden, she would imagine his voice calling her, and listen for his accustomed footsteps, then with the memory of his buried form, throw herself despairingly upon the turf, and cry out,

"Oh, Arvine, I cannot live without you!" Sobbing as if her heart would break, and yearning for a sight of the face whose presence had been the sun of her life. Now that it was blotted out, what darkness rested everywhere! Poor Kathleen! she did not yet see God's admonition in her bereavement; she had yet many sorrows to endure in her long pilgrimage, before a Christ renewed life could enable her to say, submissively and cheerfully, "Thy will be done."